


What I Want (Is Haunting Me)

by hazel1706



Series: vday 2021 💕 [4]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Closeted Character, Gay Billy Hargrove, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:09:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29421384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazel1706/pseuds/hazel1706
Summary: Billy never really...got Valentine’s Day. Didn’t understand why his mom got all misty-eyed when they walked past displays of roses in the grocery store. Why there was a bitterness about it. A sadness she seemed to carry with her everywhere.Didn’t really get why girls would titter over the cardboard cut-out hearts they made in art class, messy with glitter and lopsided declarations in smelly marker.He didn’t really understand...girls, honestly. The appeal. Why his friends would be screaming one second about girls not being allowed to play with them, and the next, chasing down Amy Wright trying to steal a kiss.orthe way billy's feelings about valentine's day, and himself, change over the years
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: vday 2021 💕 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2157063
Comments: 7
Kudos: 75
Collections: Harringrove Heart-On (2021)





	What I Want (Is Haunting Me)

**Author's Note:**

> title from like a nightmare by deadset society

_**Conversation Hearts** _

**Friday, Feb 14th 1975**

Billy never really... _ got _ Valentine’s Day. Didn’t understand why his mom got all misty-eyed when they walked past displays of roses in the grocery store. Why there was a bitterness about it. A sadness she seemed to carry with her everywhere. 

Didn’t really get why girls would titter over the cardboard cut-out hearts they made in art class, messy with glitter and lopsided declarations in smelly marker. 

He didn’t really understand... _ girls _ , honestly. The appeal. Why his friends would be screaming one second about girls not being allowed to play with them, and the next, chasing down Amy Wright trying to steal a kiss. 

When he asked his mom—because  _ she’s _ a girl, maybe  _ she’ll _ be able to tell him her secrets—she just smiled all quiet. Smoothed back his bangs. 

“Sweetheart, it’s okay if you don’t get it,” she said, and there was almost a spark of hope, a flutter of something in his chest that he didn’t quite have a name for, and then, “You’re still young. You have time.”

It frustrated him. He wanted to know  _ now _ or not at all. He didn’t want to  _ wait. _

Lucky for him he didn’t have to wait long, but the answer isn’t what he expected.

It’s lunchtime—he’s sitting alone today, fed up with how much Cory and Jay have been complaining about Amy and her apparent valentine favouritism—and he finds a plastic baggie of candies tucked away in his lunch.

Come to think of it, his mom did look especially pleased with herself when she packed it this morning.

They’re chalky little hearts, in pastel colours, stamped with words. Conversation hearts. He pops a couple in his mouth without reading them, too excited by the prospect of sugar to care. 

Then he picks one out, a purple one, a little misshapen, that says  _ let’s read! _ in blocky letters. And he pauses. 

The candy is a little sticky in his palm, so he lays it carefully on the bag it came from. 

He glances up from his table, across the room, catches sight of Marcus Castillo. He’s also sitting alone, the thermos at his side untouched, nose buried in a book. His thick curls spill onto his forehead, shadowing his face from this angle, which annoys Billy, for some reason. 

Jay and Cory always thought Marcus was weird. Because he brought a book with him everywhere he went, because he didn’t talk much, because they seemed to be  _ looking _ for reasons to dislike him. 

But Billy is mad at them now, he doesn’t care what they think. And  _ he’d  _ always thought Marcus was kind of cool. He reads  _ novels,  _ and one time he saw Marcus save a frog some boys were poking with a stick, which was really nice of him. 

The candy heart sits there while he finishes his lunch. He can’t stop looking at it while he chews his sandwich. Glancing between it and Marcus, his heart beating a little too fast. He’s good at making friends, he doesn’t know why this is making him so nervous.

By the time Mrs.Wilson, the cafeteria supervisor, says it’s time to pack up, Billy’s made up his mind, but hasn’t gotten any less anxious. He throws away his empty juice-box with trembling hands. 

Marcus is still sitting, absorbed in his novel, while most of the other kids have gone outside already. The teacher keeps shooting him annoyed looks. 

He doesn’t look up when Billy approaches, shifting from foot-to-foot, his little purple heart wrapped in plastic and clutched in one fist. “Um,” Billy starts, and clears his throat. Marcus jumps, dropping his book on the table and blinking up at Billy with wide eyes. “Sorry! Sorry,” he says hastily, flushing with embarrassment. “Um—what—what book are you reading?” 

A dull pink blush creeps across Marcus’ cheeks, and his gaze darts away, and down to his discarded book. He picks it up to show Billy the cover.

“It looks cool,” Billy says hesitantly, and he chews on his thumbnail. “My dad doesn’t let me read too much. He thinks reading is dumb, but I think  _ he’s _ dumb—” he stops, heart pounding, and he glances around, like Neil could’ve overheard somehow. “Um.”

“Sounds dumb,” Marcus offers, nodding. 

Billy beams. His smile grows when he gets one in response, a small, shy sprout of a thing, but it makes Billy  _ hope. _

Mrs.Wilson calls out, impatient, and Billy flinches. There are only a couple other stragglers packing up, and they all hurry when a teacher raises her voice. 

Marcus starts to turn away, grabbing his thermos, getting ready to leave, and—

Billy tosses the baggie at him. He doesn’t think, just panics, he’s losing his chance, and he has to do  _ something. _ The candy hits Marcus in the chest with a soft crinkly sound, and flops into his lap, where it sits while he stares at it. Billy’s entire head feels like it’s on fire.

“That’s. For you,” he says belatedly. “...Happy...Valentine’s Day?”

He kind of feels like running away would be the best option right now. Just leaving. Forever. He’s about to make his escape when Marcus glances back up at him, grinning. It doesn’t look like a mean smile, so he stays, waits, restlessly fidgeting. 

“You wanna read with me?” he finally asks, bemused. “Or, um. Was this...” he picks up the baggie and shakes it a little, squinting at the candy heart.

“No, no, I do!” Billy exclaims, far too eagerly, waving his hands around wildly. 

“Boys!” Mrs.Wilson’s voice is sharp, scolding, puts a damper on Billy’s sudden good mood. 

But it doesn’t last long. Marcus grins at him, and the giddiness returns in little bubbles in his stomach. They’re the only two left in the cafeteria, apart from an increasingly irritated Mrs.Wilson, so they pack up in a nervous rush, the old lady watching them like a grumpy hawk. 

It’s colder outside than Billy likes, overcast and windy, but he’s unaccountably warm as he walks outside with Marcus next to him, brushing his elbow. Cory yells his name from somewhere on the playground, shrill and demanding, and Billy ignores him. He was being an annoying jerk today, Billy doesn’t want to play with him. 

Besides, he knows Cory’s gonna be weird about him hanging out with Marcus. 

They find a tree to sit under, far enough away from the playground that the shrieking laughter and shouts of other kids blends into background noise. There’s a little patch of moss where Billy’s sitting. It’s soft. Comfier than lumpy dirt. 

Marcus sits close enough that he can put the book in both their laps, and quietly explains the plot so far. Billy doesn’t suggest they just start at the beginning, he likes listening to Marcus talk. He’s got a soft voice. Calming. It’s nice that Billy can’t imagine what he would sound like angry. 

He watches Marcus’s hands smooth the pages of his book down, more focused on that than the book itself. His own fingers twitch, and he chews his thumbnail, fidgety for no reason all of a sudden. He wants...something. But he doesn’t know what. 

Scooting closer helps, shuffling over ‘til he’s nestled into Marcus’s side as he talks. Feels right. Makes him less twitchy. And Marcus doesn’t seem to mind. He keeps talking. It’s the most Billy’s ever heard him speak, apparently he really likes this book. 

When he falls silent, seeming to realize just how long he’d been talking for, he hangs his head, an embarrassed flush colouring his cheeks. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “Got excited.” 

Billy grabs his hand, too busy peering down at his face and frowning to really register doing it. “It’s okay!” he glances at his own hand, blinks a little, surprised. Confused. But he squeezes Marcus’s fingers. “Your book is really cool.”

Holding his hand is better than just sitting next to him. Like when his mom kisses his forehead and he feels all warm and happy, but different because he doesn’t even  _ know _ Marcus that well. So it’s weird that it’s so nice.

“It’s my favourite,” he says in a hushed tone, like it’s a secret Billy’s being let in on. His smile is still shy, but bright. 

But maybe it’s okay that it’s nice. He smiles back. 

Billy doesn’t let go of his hand, and Marcus doesn’t pull away, so they sit like that for the rest of recess. His hand is sweaty by the time the bell rings, but he’s feeling kind of floaty and pleased about it anyways. 

He doesn’t want to go back inside. Doesn’t want to sit in a classroom and learn about boring math and sit next to the girl who always breaks her pencil a million times and has to sharpen it  _ so _ obnoxiously. He wants to stay. Hold Marcus’s hand. Finish his book.

Before he gets the chance to say so, however, Marcus kisses him. His lips are chapped. He smells nice. 

It’s a short peck on the mouth, innocent, but it knocks Billy’s whole world askew. Because suddenly he gets why the other boys chased after Amy and he didn’t. Why anybody cared about being kissed at all. 

And suddenly wanting to hold Marcus’s hand is scary. Liking the way his voice sounds is  _ terrifying. _ He knows what his father thinks of boys who kiss other boys. Knows what  _ most _ people think of boys like that. Boys like him. And Marcus.

Marcus is watching him with wide eyes. He’s afraid too. His fingers twitch against the clammy skin of Billy’s palm, and his mouth is pressed into a thin, pursed line. 

Billy sniffles. Stares down at the book still laying across their laps. 

“I won’t tell anyone. Promise.”

Marcus squeezes his hand.

They spring apart when a teacher yells at them to hurry up.

* * *

_**Jewelry** _

**Monday, February 14th 1983**

Eight months ago, Billy kissed a girl for the first time. The guys he’d been hanging out with over the summer, bumming smokes off of and pretending they were his friends, had started to...talk. Poke fun. He’s only barely able to grow any facial hair and his voice hasn’t  _ really _ dropped yet, but it’s enough that he’s now expected to be a man. 

And being a man means kissing girls. 

He practiced what he would say. Watched the leading men in movies and took note of the things that made his heart beat faster. Tried to replicate that in the mirror. Eventually it looked almost genuine. 

It was enough for Anna Walker to get weak in the knees though. They’d been in the same class since the first grade, and she’d always been nice to him. Never made fun of him for hanging out with Marcus, like some of the other kids did. 

She didn’t laugh when his voice cracked, and smiled all pretty when he batted his eyelashes, and her lips were sticky with strawberry gloss. And Billy didn’t feel a damn thing.

He knew he wouldn’t, but it still makes his stomach sink like a stone. 

She kept trying to talk to him afterwards, but he avoided her. Fairly successfully too, until she tried to approach him while he was down by the pier with a cig hanging out of his mouth. 

It was...ugly. He didn’t even know what was coming out of his mouth until she slapped him, and the guys around him cackled like rabid hyenas, and reality set in. She walked off in tears and never spoke to him again.

He thought, for a brief, selfish second, that word would get around and it would mean he wouldn’t have to take any more girls out because none of them would want to after what he did. 

But he was wrong. Word  _ did _ get around, but it had the opposite effect. Suddenly he had a reputation as the love ‘em and leave ‘em type, and there were girls who were  _ into _ that. Girls who were  _ aggressively  _ into that. 

Probably didn’t help that he’d started lifting weights over the summer, that his annoyingly persistent baby fat was finally starting to give way to muscle. And he’d started growing his hair out, Neil’s dirty looks be damned. 

Point is, he looked a little less like a pudgy child nowadays. People were starting to notice.

The noticing he didn’t mind, the attention from afar, it was when girls started pawing at him in the hallways that he got uncomfortable.

And there was one particularly tenacious girl who he’d finally been coaxed into dating.

Lizzy Scott. She was a couple years older than him. Hung out with the guys at the pier sometimes. Took a couple of them under it on occasion. She always had glossy red nailpolish on. 

Those crimson talons are currently leaving half-moon marks in his forearm. 

She’s kissing him. “It’s Valentine’s Day,” she said, “You gotta give me something  _ special.” _ Her tone makes his heart sink, his stomach twisting in anxious knots. They’ve been going on casual dates and making out behind the school for three weeks, and now her fingers are heavy on his belt buckle. 

He’s never felt anything but sick or bored when she’s smearing her lipstick all over his mouth, but they’re in her room, splayed out on too many throw pillows. The knitted blanket under Billy’s bare back itches, and he’s sweating under the press of her thighs bracketing his waist. 

If she shifts back just a little, she’ll know how little he’s enjoying this. 

So he thinks fast. Switches their positions. She giggles when he flips her on her back, looks up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. Her claws are digging into his biceps now.

He backs up, prying her fingers from his shoulders, trailing down her body and carefully feigning interest. When he’s kneeling between her parted legs he settles back on his heels. “Tell me how you like it then.” His tongue darts between his teeth, wetting his bottom lip, and he tries to remember everything he read in those stupid Cosmo mags Neil’s new girlfriend keeps leaving at their house. 

It’s messy, and his knees hurt from kneeling there so long, but he manages to get through it without her putting hands on him. Fake moaning as she wraps her legs around his shoulders and touching the soft bulge in his jeans when she’s looking is enough to convince her he got himself off. She’s distracted, it’s not hard to pull off a lie. 

She falls asleep afterwards, naked from the waist down, skirt on the floor and her undergarments hanging from her headboard, and doesn’t stir when he slips out of bed. 

He paws through her stuff, on impulse, feeling spiteful, itchy, skin too tight. There’s a peach-coloured chest on her dresser that turns out to be a very disorganized jewellry box. It’s full of tangled necklaces and broken bracelets, loose beads rattling around at the bottom. There’s a cardboard divider down the middle, a pile of mismatched earrings on the other side of it. 

There’s a half-empty bottle of nail polish tucked under a wooden turtle pendant. He slips it into his pocket, the pad of his finger sticking to tacky spots on the cap. Poking through a little more he finds a silver hoop that appears to have no partner. He takes that too.

He has been thinking about piercing his ear.

The trophies in his pocket don’t alleviate the heavy feeling of wrong in his gut, and he dry-heaves into her bathroom sink when he goes in to wash his face. There’s nothing to throw up, so it just hurts, feels like his spine trying to crawl out through his mouth. 

He dumps Lizzy the next day, with a silver hoop in his ear and hiding painted red nails in his pockets. She doesn’t cry, she just slaps him and storms off, leaving him standing there with a hollow feeling in his gut, his bruised cheek throbbing with renewed intensity. 

* * *

_**Mix Tape** _

**Thursday, February 14th 1985**

Hawkins is a shithole. 

Winter here is hell. Billy doesn’t care what the Bible says about fire and brimstone and all that shit, hell is black ice and snow drifts tall enough you can’t see the sky anymore. And having to see Steve Harrington’s cheeks flushed from the cold. And watching him blow warm air onto his frozen fingers, wishing for things he made damn sure he can never have. 

The bruises may have faded, but that doesn’t make them friends. Billy hasn’t even apologized. 

Part of him wants to. The part attached to his stupid dick and his stupider heart. The rest of him knows there’s no point. The rest of him just wants out of his damn town as fast as possible, and doesn’t  _ care _ about whatever mess he might leave behind.

He doesn’t want any attachments here.

He spends Valentine’s Day parked out by the Lover’s Lake, alone. If someone sees his car there, people will talk, he doesn’t actually need to bring some chick along. He just doesn’t have the goddamn energy to date right now. Can’t pretend to enjoy lipgloss kisses and floral perfume when his head is so fucking full of Bambi eyes and broad shoulders. 

And it might be freezing and boring out here, but anything is better than being home right now. Neil doesn’t give a  _ shit _ where he is anymore unless it means he isn’t watching precious Maxine, and Max is at a friend’s house tonight. Ever since the shitstorm in Cali she’s Neil’s new pet project, where all his hopes and dreams reside, and all Billy gets is discipline enough for damage control. 

As long as he doesn’t act like enough of a fag for people to talk, keeps his grades up and acts like a big brother, Neil leaves him alone. Gotta keep that public image intact, doesn’t matter how rotten it all is beneath the surface.

So he sits out by makeout point, reading a book by himself. He stays out of Neil’s hair, and no one has to know he’s reading  _ Maurice  _ and thinking about Steve Harrington every time a love song crackles through the staticky radio. 

And if, around midnight, he’s sleep-drunk and crying onto the worn pages of an old paperback, well. No one has to know that either. 

He finishes the book at one in the morning, so tired he can barely keep his stinging eyes open. But he can’t sleep. Can’t just curl up in the back seat and pass out, he’s too restless. Wanting. Feeling like a piece of him is missing.

Another sappy goddamn ballad starts crooning through the momentary silence and a fresh wave of tears wet his cheeks.

He grabs a pen and a crumpled receipt out of his glove box.

Another hour later he’s written a list. His hand is cramping from holding the pen at an awkward angle, trying to find a flat surface to write on. The list is titled  _ Pretty Boy Heartbreaker Mix _ .

Melodramatic, part of him whispers, ashamed. He’s too tired to care. 

Every song his heart has twinged over is on this list. Every single one that’s ever made him picture doe eyes and long legs and lose his breath for a second.

He clambers into the back with the receipt clutched in his fist. Sleeps fitfully, and wakes to sunlight burning his dry, swollen eyes. It’s still crunched into his palm, and shame washes over him. Louder in the light of day. 

It burns quickly, ashes floating away on an icy wind. 

* * *

_**Secret Admirer** _

**Thursday, February 13th 1986**

Steve hums, head tilted back to stare at the stars. “First date?” 

“You first.” Billy watches him more than the sky. He’s seen stars his whole life, and there’s only one Steve Harrington. 

“Lisa Morrison, grade six. We went to the movies and her brother chaperoned. It sucked. He smelled like anchovies and  _ hovered _ the whole time.” Steve mock-shudders, but grins, his head lolling to the side to look at Billy. “Your turn.”

Billy snorts. Flicks ash off his cigarette. The scars on his chest ache, but beneath them it feels empty. He thought he’d be more scared. “I was in...second grade.”

“Jesus, does it even count as a date when you’re that young?”

“Didn’t even know it was a date ‘til it was over. So maybe not.” He ducks his head, the ghost of a self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “His name was Marcus.” 

Out of the corner of his eye he watches Steve’s posture change, shoulders going rigid. Billy’s heart-rate skyrockets, but his voice stays steady. “Little dweeb changed my fucking life, y’know. He kissed me, and…” He looks down at his hands. Flexes his fingers against the cold. “Well, I figured some shit out that day.”

He can’t bring himself to look at Steve. Wants so badly to, he always wants to, but right now… 

He’s a fucking coward. 

Owens told him getting some things off his chest would be good for him. And then he looked awkward as hell about his choice of words. He cleared his throat and moved on, explained that bottling shit up isn’t healthy, blah, blah, blah. 

Therapy has been hellish at worst, weird at best, and he’ll be damned if he ever admits it’s actually helping. 

But it is. He needed therapy long before the goddamn  _ Mind Flayer _ , and he’s sure everyone in his life is thankful for him finally getting it. Not that there’s many people left in his life.

But the ones that are left are worth holding on to, Steve included, somehow. He’s not sure why Steve hangs around. After Starcourt he just...appeared, and never left. And now every damn day Billy has to deal with lying to his face and he can’t stand it anymore. 

So he did the deed, and now he can’t deal with the goddamn consequences. Doesn’t want to see the disgust on Steve’s face. Vitriol. Rejection. So, he stares at the glowing cherry of his cigarette. Little orange light in the gloom, casting shadows on his scarred knuckles.

“Well, you got me beat, I didn’t figure my shit out until I was fifteen,” Steve says with a strained calmness. His voice trembles, shakes and cracks around the edges, a nervousness that pierces right through Billy, tears him open trying to pry a little hope from his shriveled little heart. “I, uh. Winter break of sophomore year, me and Tommy...” Billy’s eyes snap to Steve, sharp, wide and questioning, but Steve isn’t looking at him. He’s looking everywhere  _ but _ him. “We got real drunk. I don’t—don’t think he remembers. He and I did a little more than  _ kiss _ , but. Well.”

Steve shrugs, gesturing helplessly, like that’s that. Like no more explanation is required. Like he didn’t just break Billy’s brain in fucking half with that little revelation.

“So,” Billy barely trusts his voice, but he has to know. “You...um...”

“Yeah. I—yeah.” He’s nodding so vigorously Billy worries for his spinal health. “I’m not, like,  _ gay _ though—” 

And if Billy had a dime for every time he’d heard  _ that _ from a guy, well. He wouldn’t have to live in Hawkins anymore, that’s for damn sure. 

He should’ve known. It’s always the preppy assholes in their polo shirts and expensive watches that mommy and daddy paid for. Guys that’ll let you suck their dick and then call you a fag, toss you out on the street the second they get their rocks off. 

But, god, he thought Steve was  _ better _ than that, and he feels like an  _ idiot _ for ever—

“—uh, Robin says the term is ‘bisexual’.” 

Oh. 

_ Oh. _

Billy stares at Steve like he’s never seen him before in his life. And he supposes, he kind of hasn’t until now. “Well, shit,” he says faintly. “Didn’t see that coming.”

Understatement. He’s still trying to recalibrate his whole damn worldview.

Some of the tension leaving Steve’s posture, exhaled in a quiet laugh. “Yeah, you’re one to talk.” 

Billy inclines his head, shrugging one shoulder, feeling inexplicably shy. 

He feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, and now he doesn’t know how to deal with floating freely. It’s been so long since he could.

Steve glances at his watch, his gaze always shifting around. He blinks, and a half-smile tugs at his mouth. “Oh, it’s midnight.” He lifts his arm to show Billy, the backlit green 12:07. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Yeah…” Billy smiles back, small and hesitant. “You too.”

* * *

_**Poetry** _

**Saturday, February 14th 1987**

“Um...Billy what are these?”

Billy’s heart drops, and keeps falling ‘til it’s somewhere on the ground between them. Steve is standing at his desk, all-too familiar sheets of paper in hand, glancing between them and Billy in the doorway. 

“What—” his voice shakes. He licks his lips. Clears his throat and tries to sound more angry than scared. “Why were you snooping through my  _ room _ , Harrington?”

They’ve been living together for eight months, and it’s been a very specific kind of exquisite torture. But up until now the one thing they’ve never had a problem with is  _ boundaries _ . This kind anyways. Steve’s never violated his privacy. 

“I wasn’t snooping! I swear!” Steve drops the papers like they burned him, his empty hands flying upward, palms out. He stands there, frozen, wide-eyed and staring at Billy, hands up like he expects Billy to pull out a gun. “I—” his gaze is drawn back to the desk. Lingers. Flicks to Billy again. “I was just looking for a  _ pen _ . All mine are dry, and I was supposed to write down—something, I—can’t fucking remember  _ now _ , but I had to write something down, and these were just...” He trails off, gesturing wildly at the scattered notes.

Billy can’t fucking breathe. He’s such an  _ idiot. _ He stayed up late last night, scribbling down his thoughts. Yesterday Steve told him he didn’t have a date for Valentine’s Day and didn’t  _ want _ one, because he’d rather spend the day with Billy. And sent Billy fucking  _ spiralling. _ He couldn’t sleep until he wrote it all down. Every stupid stray thought, and then he scratched most of it out, refined it, boiled it down into...something.

He shies around calling it poetry. Still rankles a little when Owens asks if he’s  _ journelled _ recently. But it smacks of yearning and flowery script and fancy metaphors for what he’s been trying not to say for years now.

And Steve just fucking read it.

They tell each other everything  _ except _ for that. Steve knows everything there is to know about Billy  _ except for that. _ He needs Steve, relies on him so heavily, he couldn’t fuck that up with his stupid fuzzy  _ feelings _ and now they’re just out in the goddamn open.

He takes a halting step back, his shoulder hitting the doorframe. He wants to run. Wants to leave. But he can’t. He won’t. There’s nowhere to go. 

“Steve, I can explain…” he says quietly, barely able to get the words out without crying. He’s got a palm flat against the wall, leaning back against it because his knees won’t support his weight right now. 

“I don’t—it’s okay, I just—” Steve takes a step towards him, stammering, frantic. He runs anxious fingers through his hair, tugging on stray locks, leaving it a mess. “Billy I just—I don’t understand.”

“You—you read it didn’t you?” 

He’s still walking towards Billy, slowly, like you’d approach a skittish cat. Billy lets him come. Lets him stand close. Breathes him in. Calming breaths. It’s a technique that works better when Steve is around with his sweet honey and clover scent. 

“Yeah, but—” Steve stops himself and winces, “Sorry, I’m sorry I read it. I shouldn’t have. I just. Um. Saw my name?” his voice cracks a little, “And couldn’t help myself. I’m really sorry.”

Billy’s eyes fall shut. He counts to ten in his head. When he dares to look, Steve is watching him closely, inches away, hovering. “You aren’t...uh. Mad, or anything?” 

“No? Should I be? I told you, I didn’t...really get it. I nearly flunked English, man, poetry’s never made sense to me.” He smiles a little, self-deprecating and sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was pretty though. Like, it sounded nice. Happy, I thought. Maybe. I dunno. I swear, I have no idea what it was about though.”

“It…” Billy’s nails scratch the wooden doorframe. He searches Steve’s face, and finds nothing but the usual earnest warmth. And he makes a decision. “It was about love.”

He hears all the air leave Steve’s lungs. Sees him sway, like the statement physically hit him. He blinks his big pretty eyes and mouths soundlessly a couple times. And Billy waits. Hopes. 

_ “Oh.” _

The corner of Billy’s lip quirks. “Oh,” he echoes. 

“Like...like, um, in a...friend way, or…”

“In an, I’ve been in love with you since I was seventeen, way.” Billy lets his head fall back against the doorframe, his curls cushioning the impact. He tilts his chin, watching Steve, waiting for him to say something. He can handle rejection, he thinks. It’s not like Steve would throw him out on the streets or anything, not after everything they’ve been through. 

But he just stands there, the gears in his head visibly turning, gaze wandering Billy’s face. 

“Oh,” he says again, quieter. 

Billy’s got a sarcastic retort on the tip of his tongue when Steve leans forward and kisses it away. His face warms, Steve’s fingers gentle against his cheeks, his lips soft and sweet in ways that crack Billy open. 

It’s brief. Steve pulls back as suddenly as he pressed forward. His hands stay cradling Billy’s face, stubble rasping under his palms. Billy is putty in his hands, thankful for the wall at his back. His heart stutters every time Steve’s thumb strokes down his cheekbone. 

“...Steve?” he breathes, his voice light with wonder. 

He gets a hum in response. One of Steve’s hands wanders upwards, brushing through his hair. He shivers when blunt nails graze his scalp. 

“Um…”

Steve kisses him again, fingers tangled in his hair, his mouth insistent this time, and the rest of his body following along, chasing contact. Billy is dizzy with it, drunk on Steve’s solid warmth. He reaches up to grip Steve’s waist, and Steve presses impossibly closer, leaning into the touch, gasping against Billy’s lips. 

They’re both panting by the time they have to come up for air. 

“I love you,” Steve whispers, knocking his forehead gently against Billy’s. “In a, more than a friend, I’ve wanted to do that forever, kind of way.”

Billy toys with the hem of Steve’s shirt, his heart full and warm, tears in his eyes but no harsh sting to go along with them. “Forever?”

“Mhm.” Steve kisses him, chaste and lingering. “Waiting my whole damn life to do that, feels like.”

“Sap.” Billy grins fondly around the accusation.

“Says the guy who wrote poetry about me.”

He flushes. “Shut up.”

_ “Make _ me.”

And so he does, smiling against Steve’s mouth, and for the first time, truly appreciating the holiday. 

**Author's Note:**

> listen. these prompts were v loosely interpreted, i know. but i wrote this all in one day and did not edit it so pls let me live lmao


End file.
